


I Like Me Better (when I'm with you)

by Kangofu_CB



Series: MFD Prompts [5]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bananas, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Face-Fucking, I always spill feelings in my porn, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Popsicles, Porn with Feelings, the tags make this look way weirder than it is to be honest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 15:57:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18854296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: “You gonna eat that?” Bucky asked, nodding towards the popsicle.“Huh?” Clint said, still staring at Bucky’s mouth.“You gonna eat the rest of that?” Bucky asked, again.  “Or can I have it?”“You can, uh, if you want it, I mean,” Clint was stumbling over his words, and it made Bucky grin.  He reached out, taking the popsicle out of Clint’s hand.Bucky licked his way up the sides of the treat, catching the melting drips, and then tugged Clint’s hand up to his mouth.  He licked the sticky, melted syrup off Clint’s fingers, holding eye contact with him the whole time.The one where Bucky finds out bananas are a trap, Clint takes him on a field trip, and somehow they end up naked.ORThe one where Clint teaches Bucky what 'home' really means.





	I Like Me Better (when I'm with you)

**Author's Note:**

> Mandatory fun day prompt fill revolving around popsicles. How this got from bananas to popsicles to porn is... well, it's not a mystery, because it was Clara's fault, as all things are. 
> 
> Also fills my Clint Barton Bingo prompt of 'Pining'.

It was a normal, everyday Tuesday in June when Bucky wandered into the tower kitchen and found… a Skrull.  Bucky was fresh off a workout in the gym and looking for breakfast, but the scene in the communal kitchen brought him to a rocking halt, disbelief warring with suspicion.

 

He was pretty sure the Steve sitting at the kitchen island was a Skrull.  Because the Steve Rogers he knew, the Steve Rogers of Bucky’s childhood, adulthood, and post-brainwashed, Hydra assassin, reformed Avenger-hood - that Steve Rogers hated bananas. 

 

“What the fuck?” he said blankly, as Steve shoved the remaining half of a banana into his mouth and chased it with the dregs of his coffee.

 

“What?” Sam said, one eyebrow raised, “you forget your name again Barnes?”

 

“Fuck off,” Bucky told him automatically.  “Steve hates bananas.”

 

“Steve loves bananas.”

 

“No, fuck you, Steve has hated bananas for eighty goddamned years, that’s a Skrull.”

 

Steve manfully swallowed down the entire banana, and Bucky… tried not to think about what that probably meant about how he spent his time with Sam in the bedroom.  And failed. But the trying mattered. 

 

“Aw, Buck, I-”

 

“No, fuck you Steve, you hate bananas.   _ I _ like bananas.”

 

“You did like bananas,” Steve allowed, “but-”

 

“No I like bananas, you hate bananas, this is the way of the world, why are you eating a banana?” He squinted at Steve.  “Are you a Skrull? What was the first thing you said to me when we met?”

 

“Buck,  _ you _ don’t even remember the first thing I said to you when we met.”

 

That was true enough.  “What’s the first thing Sam said to you when you met?”  That was like five years ago, surely that was far enough back that a Skrull wouldn’t know.  Not that Bucky knew the answer either. 

 

“‘Uh-huh, on my left.  Got it.’”

 

“Fine,” Bucky said, slumping onto a barstool.  “You’re not a Skrull. But you like bananas. Fine.  The future is weird and I hate it.” He reached out and snatched one of the bananas out of the bunch.  It was perfectly ripe, bright yellow, but skinnier and more curved than he remembered.

 

Then again, all the produce was more perfect than he remembered it being, and he’d learned that grocery stores and produce shippers threw out food that wasn’t ‘aesthetically pleasing’ enough to be on the shelves.  

 

This was a fact which Steve ranted about often enough for Bucky to be completely familiar with the entire chain of food production, and to feel similarly irritated by the massive amount of waste.  Unlike  _ some _ people, Bucky didn’t listen to  _ podcasts _ about it, though.  Who needed to, when Steve was around to bellow about the injustice of it all?

 

He peeled the banana and shoved it in his mouth, just as Natasha and Clint wandered in, Natasha perfectly coiffed and Clint sweating and disheveled and bruised in about twelve places.  They’d been sparring, then. Even though they generally broke about even in hand-to-hand, Natasha always emerged looking fresh as a daisy, whereas Clint always looked like he’d lost a battle in a dumpster. 

 

The banana tasted like garbage.  Bucky gagged, took it back out of his mouth to stare at it in horror.  He managed to swallow the bite he’d taken, but there was no way he was going to finish the rest.

 

“What the fuck?” he said, again.  “What the hell happened to bananas?”

 

Did Hydra ruin bananas?

 

Maybe it was his fucked-up brain.  Maybe Steve was right and Bucky was wrong, and Steve had loved bananas all along because there was  _ no way _ that Bucky would like something that tasted like… that. 

 

“Nothing,” Sam told him.  He grinned that shit-eating grin that meant he was having one on at Bucky’s expense.

 

Bucky hated his life.

 

“Oh,” Clint said, glancing up from where he’d collapsed against the island with his face on the cool marble.  “Yeah, they changed bananas years ago. Like the kind you grew up with caught the plague or something and now we have a new breed.”  He shrugged. “They kinda suck but it’s not so bad if you put them on a sandwich with peanut butter. And honey.” 

 

Bucky stared sadly at the banana.

 

He couldn’t even have  _ fruit _ , come on, future, get it together. 

 

Rolling his eyes, Steve leaned over and took the banana out of Bucky’s hand and ate it in three large, disgusting bites.  “There,” Steve told him, swallowing, “the bad banana can’t hurt you anymore.”

 

“I hate you,” Bucky told him.  

 

“Oh!” Clint said again, rousing himself enough on the barstool to prop his chin on his hand.  “You should have a banana popsicle.”

 

“No thanks,” Bucky told him immediately.  “I’m good.”

 

“No, no,” Clint said, warming up to the subject.  “They don’t taste like bananas at all, it’s great.”

 

Bucky could feel his face turn skeptical. On one hand, that banana had been one of the worst things Bucky had ever put in his mouth. On the other hand, Clint hadn’t led him astray yet.  There’d been good pizza restaurants and hole-in-the-wall bars, and upgraded sniper technology. The guy looked like a trash fire, but he was pretty good at getting Bucky out of his shell and into things he honestly enjoyed.  Better than Steve, sometimes, who hovered all good-naturedly with that worry-wrinkle between his eyebrows. 

 

“I know a guy,” Clint told him, and then shoved himself to his feet with a pained groan.  “Lemme go change, we’ll take a walk.”

 

“It’s breakfast time,” Bucky pointed out.

 

“So?”

 

And-

 

Well, Bucky didn’t really have an answer to that.  

 

**

 

Clint met him at the elevators in a shirt so old it was sheer in places, showing off his biceps, and a pair of jeans that hugged all the right places and might, once upon a time, have been blue but were now stained with god-only-knew-what.  Bucky could, at a passing glance, identify coffee, grease, and blood spatter stains just on the hems, but he didn’t ask. When Bucky got close enough, he could smell the clean, pleasant aromas of detergent and something that was distinctly  _ Clint _ , so the clothes were clean, they were just… old. 

 

Like Bucky himself, frankly. 

 

He’d stolen one of Steve’s hoodies for the outing, something bulky enough that his arm was completely covered with no sign that there were metal plates underneath, and he’d thrown a baseball cap over his hair, so it wasn’t like he was going to win any fashion awards here. 

 

“Where are we going?” he asked Clint as they stepped out of Avengers’ Tower and onto the busy Manhattan streets. 

 

“Bed-Stuy,” Clint told him, leading the way to the nearest subway stop. 

 

By the time they arrived in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Bucky was sweating and cranky, annoyed with the entire populace of New York in general and the subway commuters in particular.  This shit had better be worth it. 

 

“C’mon,” Clint said, navigating them briskly through the sea of people, cutting down alleys and between buildings into less crowded areas of the borough.  “I’ll make it worth your while. We can go back to my apartment after and pet Lucky.”

 

Yet another example of how well Clint had sussed Bucky out, knew him better than just about anyone these days, with the exception of Steve.  The dog was the perfect level of bribery, along with an opportunity to get off the crowded streets. Bucky had a not-so-secret soft spot for Lucky.  Clint thought it was hilarious, but since Clint loved the dog with the unbridled enthusiasm of a four year old, it wasn’t like he had room to judge Bucky for it.  

 

Clint lived nearly full-time at the tower, but Tony had put the kibosh on pets, and anyway they were called out often enough that caring for a pet as time-consuming as a dog - even Lucky, who was as laid-back as they came - was too much trouble.  So, Clint sublet his Bed-Stuy apartment to Kate Bishop, and they time-shared the dog. Mostly that meant that Kate kept the dog in the apartment, and Clint showed up unannounced, so far as Bucky could tell. 

 

“Kate’s not home,” Clint told him.  “She’s gone for the weekend with America, so I need to feed Lucky and take him out anyway.”

 

They were coming up on a street corner intersection that Bucky recognized from previous visits to Clint’s apartment, but instead of taking a right, Clint took a left and led them another two blocks west.  

 

“Where’s the- oh!”

 

They rounded another corner and on the side of the street was a blue bicycle cart advertising popsicles and-

 

“Popcycle?” Bucky said.  “Really?”

 

The hand-painted cart read ‘ _ The Popcycle: Gourmet Popsicles _ ’ and had a giant red popsicle sticking up out of the top.

 

“Don’t knock it,” Clint told him, getting in line.  “It’s a good marketing strategy.”

 

Considering the line was at least ten people deep at ten o’clock in the morning, Bucky couldn’t really argue the point.  

 

It didn’t take long to get to the front of the line, since all the vendor was doing was handing out popsicles and taking money, and when they got there, Clint hooked his sunglasses over his shirt collar to read the menu.  Apparently Popcycle only carried a half-dozen flavor varieties at a time, and ‘banana’ wasn’t anywhere on the list. Bucky slumped. Sometime in the forty-five minutes it had taken to get here, he’d let himself get excited about a damn popsicle. 

 

“Hey PJ,” Clint said, smiling easy like he did for people.  The sort of relaxed charm that had once come naturally for Bucky and was now just about always out of reach.  “You got any banana popsicles stashed in the back?”

 

“You mean like the ones we had as kids?” PJ asked, grinning.  He was wearing a white baseball cap and a yellow polo shirt, stained in places with different colors that Bucky realized was probably from the popsicles themselves. 

 

“Yeah,” Clint said, cocking a hip.  “This guy never had one.” He jerked a thumb in Bucky’s direction.

 

Bucky grimaced.

 

“Oh sure, sure,” PJ said, reaching into the cart and shuffling a few crates around inside.  “You want grape?”

 

Because of course Clint was a regular here, and of course grape popsicles were his usual.  

 

Bucky snorted. 

 

“Nah, I’ll take banana too,” Clint told him, scratching at the back of his neck, a little sheepish.  

 

PJ unearthed two shockingly yellow treats, brandishing them at Clint, who took them while digging his wallet out of his pocket.  He passed PJ cash and told him to keep the change, and then Clint was navigating them away from the cart with a wave, and back towards his apartment.  

 

Bucky held his hand out and Clint passed him the popsicle, and they unwrapped them in unison, unfolding the clear plastic with a crinkling sound that was almost a memory.  Bucky wondered if he’d had popsicles like this before. 

 

Clint tapped his popsicle against Bucky’s in the mockery of a toast, then shoved the whole end of it in his mouth unceremoniously.  

 

Bucky approached his more cautiously, giving it a tentative lick, letting the sugary-sweet flavor of it burst across his tongue.  He couldn’t help the noise of surprise he made. 

 

“Tastes like how you remember?” Clint guessed, looking over at Bucky’s face and holding his own popsicle in his hand. 

 

“Sweeter,” Bucky said, “but yeah, tastes right.”

 

He stuck the popsicle in his mouth and swirled it, enjoying the way the flavor made old memories tug at his brain.  Not enough to bring anything back, but enough to feel familiar, to give him a sense of  _ home _ he seldom got in the present.  Everything in the future was bigger, louder, brighter, and more crowded.  Food tasted different - preservatives and preparations methods had changed a lot - and it wasn’t often that Bucky got to enjoy the simple pleasure of something familiar.

 

And while this wasn’t completely right - it wasn’t completely  _ wrong _ , either.  

 

The popsicles were already starting to melt by the time they got to Clint’s building, Clint licking the dripping sugary syrup off his fingers and juggling his keys with his other hand.  Bucky rolled his eyes, shoved the entire frozen treat into his mouth, and took Clint’s keys out of his hand to let them in the building.

 

Clint stared at him, an indecipherable look on his face.  

 

Bucky handed the keys back and took the popsicle out of his mouth.  “What?”

 

“Not- nothing.  Not a thing,” Clint said, swallowing, and turned away to head up the stairs. 

 

Watching him go, Bucky contemplated the look he’d seen.  It had been flushed and focused and familiar. Where had Bucky seen a look like that before?

 

He shuffled up the stairs behind Clint at a more sedate pace, pondering.  

 

Inside the apartment, Lucky danced up to them, wagging his whole body in happy greeting.  Bucky kept watching as Clint crouched down to pet the dog, holding his popsicle high over his head and laughing at the dog’s antics.  When Lucky finally dragged himself over to Bucky, Bucky looked Clint dead in the face, sucked the popsicle into his mouth, and leaned over to pet the dog.

 

Clint choked.

 

It came to him suddenly, between one blink and the next, where Bucky had seen that look before. 

 

He’d seen it in back alleys and dance halls and stolen moments across western Europe.  He’d seen it on the faces of men and women, nearly eighty years ago, and he just about remembered exactly what it usually led to.

 

That was new for the twenty-first century, though, and he turned his attention to finding all of Lucky’s itchy spots while he decided what, if anything, to do about it.  He wondered--

 

Well, he wondered a lot.

 

Bucky kept mostly to himself these days.  He didn’t date, for all that Steve tried to encourage him and Natasha tried to set him up, but he wasn’t  _ dead _ .  He had  _ eyes _ .  He looked at people, saw celebrities in magazines and people on the street and, hell, he lived in a tower full of super-powered and supernaturally beautiful individuals.  He wasn’t  _ blind _ .  Steve was… well, Steve, who Bucky could objectively admit was a brick shit house of  _ hot damn _ , despite Bucky’s complete disinterest in anything even remotely sexual.  Natalia was every man’s honeypot, and more than a few women. Even Wilson had a certain charm, when he wasn’t deliberately irritating the fuck out of Bucky. Bruce had the recently-disheveled professor thing going on. Even Tony was attractive, if he’d ever just shut the hell up.  

 

So Bucky wasn’t blind, but he also wasn’t  _ stupid _ .  Bucky had done the sensible thing: catalogued all the information, then deliberately ignored it because he didn’t want to make things weird by checking out his… housemates.  

 

Also, he wasn’t too keen on Natalia stabbing him.

 

So he kept his eyes and his thoughts mostly to himself but-

 

But, objectively speaking, Clint was a damn good looking man.  He was also a social disaster, but it was the kind of disaster Bucky  _ liked _ , comfortable and easy and content in his own skin.  He had an affable smile and he just seemed to know what Bucky needed without Bucky having to ask, whether that was space or company or to be touched with kindness.

 

And now he was looking at Bucky like  _ that _ . 

 

Bucky wondered how long Clint had  _ been _ looking at him like that. 

 

And Bucky-

 

Bucky thought about it, while Lucky whined happily under his fingertips, and he decided he  _ wanted _ . 

 

Because Bucky was allowed to want things now.  Steve had said so, and so had his therapist, his psychiatrist, and Natalia. 

 

He stood up, dusting his hands off on his pants as Lucky was distracted by the sound of kibble being poured into his bowl.  Clint’s popsicle was stuck in his mouth now, and Bucky couldn’t help but admire the shift of muscles under Clint’s t-shirt as he hefted the bag of dog food back into the pantry.  Clint turned around and gave Bucky another of the looks, and then cut his eyes away, flushing. Bucky pulled the popsicle out of his mouth with a slurp and leaned against the edge of the counter, considering.  

 

He considered all the months of casual friendship, the ease and camaraderie.  He considered times at the range and trying new restaurants and days like today where Clint dragged him out of the tower and his comfort zone and took him to try something new that he genuinely liked.  He considered how Clint seemed to  _ get _ it, seemed to understand something fundamental about Bucky that even Steve didn’t always get.  

 

Bucky took his hat off, tossing it on the counter top, and shoved the popsicle back in his mouth so he could strip off the hoodie too.  He was sweating under the damn thing anyway, but it would be hard to see how much of this was in Bucky’s mind and how much of it was real if he didn’t at least take  _ some _ of his clothes off.

 

Clint made a tiny, desperate noise that made Bucky smirk under the cover of the cloth he was pulling over his head.  

 

Not all in his mind, then. 

 

When he schlepped the heavy cotton off and tossed it over the back of a chair, Clint was staring at him, still a little flushed, a lot distracted, and what was left of his popsicle was meslting onto his hand.  

 

Bucky worked at the remaining bits of his own popsicle, swirling his tongue around it until it melted into manageable bits and fell off the stick, then he pulled the now-clean wooden stick out of his mouth.

 

Clint whimpered.  

 

Bucky took a couple of steps closer, and Clint just watched him, frozen against the edge of the counter.  

 

“You gonna eat that?” Bucky asked, nodding towards the popsicle.

 

“Huh?” Clint said, still staring at Bucky’s mouth.

 

“You gonna eat the rest of that?” Bucky asked, again.  “Or can I have it?”

 

“You can, uh, if you want it, I mean,” Clint was stumbling over his words, and it made Bucky grin.  He reached out, taking the popsicle out of Clint’s hand.

 

Bucky licked his way up the sides of the treat, catching the melting drips, and then tugged Clint’s hand up to his mouth.  He licked the sticky, melted syrup off Clint’s fingers, holding eye contact with him the whole time. Clint’s pupils dilated and he sucked in a short, sharp breath.  Bucky sucked one of Clint’s fingers into his mouth, feeling the contrast of the heat of his fingers with the cool interior of Bucky’s mouth. Clint shuddered underneath his touch.

 

When Clint’s hand was clean, Bucky didn’t let it go.  Instead he twined their fingers together, stepping even closer, and then put what was left of Clint’s popsicle in his mouth.  He watched Clint’s face the whole time, taking in the rise in color, the choppy breathing, everything that screamed arousal to Bucky, who’d spent more than one lifetime watching people’s body language.  

 

The popsicle melted to nothing in his mouth and Bucky dragged the stick from between his lips with agonizing slowness.  Clint couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

 

Bucky dropped both popsicle sticks on the counter behind Clint and leaned in, until their chests were touching, and tilted his head up, his lips just barely brushing Clint’s.

 

Clint’s eyes slipped shut and he fell into the contact.

 

“How long?” Bucky said, breathing the words into the bare space between them.

 

“Hmm?” Clint managed, nudging his lips against Bucky’s jaw.  Bucky tilted his head to let him. 

 

“How long have you been thinking about this?”  Bucky asked, sliding his right hand just under the edges of Clint’s t-shirt to the warm skin beneath.

 

“I dunno,” Clint said, sounding helpless, his mouth on Bucky’s throat.  “Have you looked at your face?”

 

Bucky snorted.  “Right,” he said, rolling his eyes.  He dragged his hand further up Clint’s side, his thumbs brushing along the ridges of his abs, the musculature around his ribs.  Clint shivered. The metal hand he kept firmly on the counter behind them. 

 

Clint leaned back though, staring down at Bucky’s face in something like disbelief.  “No, seriously,” he said, his eyes darting back and forth over Bucky’s features. “Have you seen your face?”  He reached up to cup Bucky’s jaw under his hand. “It’s a good face, Buck. A great face. I was just tryin’ to protect your old-fashioned sensibilities.”

 

“Steve’s fuckin’ Sam, and you thought I had old-fashioned sensibilities?” Bucky asked in disbelief. 

 

Clint looked momentarily stymied.  “That’s… fair,” he allowed. “I was- I dunno Bucky, I was trying to be nice and not… I was trying to be your  _ friend _ .”

 

“You are my friend,” Bucky told him, then shut him up with his mouth.

 

It was a surprisingly effective tactic and Bucky filed it away for later use to his advantage.  

 

Bucky’s mouth was cool from both popsicles, but it was warming up rapidly, now that Clint was participating enthusiastically in kissing him.  Bucky had to tilt his head up and Clint had to lean down, but they managed to make it work, especially when Clint’s hand moved from Bucky’s jaw to the back of his head, carefully cradling his skull and taking some of the pressure off of Bucky’s neck.  Bucky bit down on Clint’s lower lip, swallowed the guttural moan that followed, and then licked his way into Clint’s mouth. 

 

Clint’s other hand tightened on Bucky’s hip, pulling him in even closer, until Bucky could feel the beginning of an erection pressed against his stomach, and he stepped even closer, until his own dick was pressed against Clint’s thigh.  Clint groaned again.

 

Bucky’s hand slid further up Clint’s t-shirt, until he was dragging his nails up Clint’s spine, making Clint arch further into him, and Bucky let go of the counter to fumble at the hem of the shirt.  Clint twisted, leaning so that Bucky wasn’t pressed up against him anymore as he stripped the shirt off. Their mouths separated only long enough for Clint to yank the t-shirt over his head, and then his mouth was back on Bucky’s again, and pulling him into his bare chest.  Clint rucked Bucky’s shirt up next, until it was trapped under his armpits and his fingers were dragging over the newly-exposed skin.

 

Clint broke off the kiss.  “Buck- can I- I want-”

 

Bucky reached behind his head and grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling it up and over his shoulders without comment, dragging Clint back down for another kiss before the garment even hit the floor.  

 

There was an enthusiastic ‘mmrph’ against Bucky’s mouth, and then Clint’s hands were dancing over his back, exploring his skin, his scars, the edges of the metal Hydra had grafted there.  Bucky shivered under his touch, flinching away slightly. 

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Clint said, leaning to press his forehead to Bucky’s right shoulder.  “I won’t touch it if you don’t want.”

 

Bucky swallowed roughly.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be touched, it was- 

 

There were a whole host of feelings associated with the arm, and most of them were painful memories and terrible actions.  He- didn’t know if he wanted Clint to touch the arm. The arm had hurt a lot of people,  _ Bucky _ had hurt a lot of people and-

 

But Clint was dragging his hand along Bucky’s left side, the gesture almost soothing, and his fingers stopped just short of the worst of the scarring on every upstroke before Clint reversed his course and stroked back down to the waist of Bucky’s sweatpants.  

 

“You can,” Bucky blurted.  “If you want. You don’t have to- I know it’s not-”  He gestured helplessly at the mess of scars and metal and general fuckery that was his left shoulder. 

 

Clint stopped to look at him,  _ really _ look at him, his eyes searching Bucky’s expression, and then he set both his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, dragging them slowly from his throat to the curve of his biceps, keeping his touch steady but not overwhelming.  His eyes never left Bucky’s face, and Bucky had to close his eyes as the touch on his left side dulled where his body went from sensitive skin to unfeeling metal. Clint squeezed his biceps, then continued stroking down Bucky’s arms.  His right arm broke out into goosebumps at Clint’s touch, and the plates of the left shifted, like the robotic equivalent of a shiver. The contact ended with Clint’s fingers tangled up in Bucky’s, gripping loosely. 

 

“I want,” Clint assured him, then leaned in to brush his mouth across Bucky’s. He kept the kiss light this time, just lazily moving their mouths together, the barest flicker of tongue, something soft and almost sweet.  

 

He pulled Bucky’s arms - both of them - around him and pressed further into the kiss, twisting one hand in Bucky’s hair and resting the other against his lower back so he could pull them closer together.  

 

“I really, really want,” he muttered against Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky tentatively splayed his metal fingers at the base of Clint’s spine. 

 

Clint pressed back into the touch, making a sound in the back of his throat that spurred Bucky on, and Bucky ran his fingers lightly up Clint’s spine, which produced a delightful full-body shudder.  Clint nipped at Bucky’s bottom lip, his hand drifting from Bucky’s lower back to his ass, giving it a squeeze. 

 

Bucky’s knees went a little weak, and Clint pressed his advantage, spinning them so that Bucky was against the counter instead of Clint, and Clint dropped to his knees in front of him.

 

“This okay?” he asked, reaching for the waist of Bucky’s sweats.

 

Bucky swallowed dryly.  “Yeah,” he croaked, leaning more heavily against the edge of the counter.  “Go for it.”

 

Clint smirked, then leaned in to nuzzle at the erection pressing insistently at the front of the sweatpants Bucky’d thrown on back at the tower.  Hell, they might’ve been Steve’s sweats, Bucky wasn’t even sure, nor did he care at the moment. Clint ran his lips along the thin, sensitive skin below Bucky’s navel, then tugged the pants down, letting them fall to a pool at Bucky’s feet.

 

Bucky would have stepped out of them, except Clint chose that moment to mouth wetly at the front of his briefs, and Bucky forgot how his legs even worked.  He reached back to grip the counter tightly, his breath coming in shuddering gasps. 

 

“Oh fuck,” he managed, as Clint sucked on the head of his dick through the thin cotton.  

 

Clint pulled the briefs down to join the sweats, and licked a wet stripe up Bucky’s cock.

 

“Oh  _ fuck _ ,” Bucky said again, reaching out to thread his fingers through Clint’s hair.

 

His metal fingers.

 

Bucky flinched back, flailing a little with the motion.

 

Clint swirled his tongue around the head of Bucky’s cock, looking up at him with eyes that were barely ringed in blue, pupils blown out and his cheeks flushed.  He reached for Bucky’s hand - his metal hand, again - and pulled it back to his hair. Bucky settled it gently against Clint’s head, mindful of how fragile Clint’s skull felt beneath his fingers.

 

“You can pull,” Clint told him, hot breath blowing across the damp skin of Bucky’s dick.  “I like it.”

 

Tentatively, Bucky twisted his fingers in the longer strands at the top of Clint’s hair, giving an experimental tug.  He couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t look away from the way Clint seemed like he was worshipping his cock, rubbing his cheek against the shaft and breathing deeply.  Clint turned his head, pressed a kiss to the palm of Bucky’s hand. He flicked his tongue out, running it along the ridges of the hand and between the fingers, before meeting Bucky’s gaze.

 

“Harder,” Clint told him, smirking wickedly.  “I told you, I like it. And I trust you.”

 

Before Bucky could come up with any sort of response to that, Clint sucked his cock down into his mouth, messy and wet and  _ filthy _ , until he was choking on it, still somehow unbelievably hot.  Bucky’s fingers tightened involuntarily, pulling at the hair his hand was already tangled in, and before he could back off or apologize, Clint moaned. 

 

It was  _ obscene _ .

 

It was the kind of sound that belonged in the sort of porn that still made Bucky blush. 

 

Bucky made a garbled noise in response, felt his knees go loose, and gripped the counter behind him even tighter, until the fingertips of his right hand were going numb.

 

_ Should have used the other hand _ , the thought muzzily, but Clint was working his cock with a kind of messy expertise that meant Bucky could only hold on for the ride and pray. 

 

Clint sucked furiously for a few seconds, bobbing his head rapidly and swallowing around Bucky’s cock, but then he started to slow down again, just as Bucky was getting to the edge of incoherent, until he was barely moving at all, and Bucky’s hips were jerking in tiny, desperate thrusts.  

 

Then Clint stopped.  He stopped, and held the head of Bucky’s cock in his mouth, flicking his tongue underneath it in a deliberate tease.  

 

Bucky blinked away the haze of arousal, looking down at Clint in desperation.  

 

Clint raised an eyebrow, like it was a  _ challenge _ , like he was waiting for Bucky to-

 

Clutching the hair in his hand, Bucky dragged Clint’s mouth down his cock, fucking himself with Clint’s face and-

 

The sound Clint made was even filthier, some wanton combination of desire and pleasure and  _ need _ , and Bucky was helpless to do anything except answer it.  He pulled harder, faster, forcing Clint to swallow his dick.  Clint looked debauched, his throat stuffed full of cock, with his eyes half-closed but still watching Bucky with a kind of helpless adoration and arousal.  He was flushed and seemed at least as turned on as Bucky felt. 

 

Clint brought his hands up, resting them gently on Bucky’s thighs, stroking the muscle there, occasionally using his thumbs to brush against Bucky’s balls in a completely different kind of tease, but made no move at all to stop Bucky fucking his mouth, to make him ease his grip on his hair.  Instead, he relaxed into the grip, shifting his shoulders and dropping lower to give Bucky a better angle.

 

“Jesus christ,” Bucky muttered, and he released the counter behind him to cup Clint’s jaw, to feel the muscles working under his fingertips as Clint sucked him off. 

 

The sharp drag of Clint’s blunt nails down his thighs made Bucky jerk, made him thrust forward just as he was pulling Clint onto his cock, and he almost let go, almost jerked back to apologize, but Clint wrapped his hands around Bucky’s hips and held him there, held him still, deep in Clint’s throat while Clint swallowed convulsively around him as he blinked back tears.

 

“Oh my  _ god _ ,” Bucky managed, running his thumb around the edge of Clint’s mouth where it was stretched around him.  

 

Clint hummed.

 

Bucky died. 

 

Well he didn’t die, because he was pretty sure he  _ couldn’t  _ die at this point, but his brain fucked off to somewhere in outer space as he thrust uncontrollably into Clint’s mouth, his hand tightened to a fist in Clint’s hair while he held him still.  Bucky held Clint still and fucked his face and came with the force of a nuclear fucking  _ bomb _ , came so hard that he thought he was  _ going _ to die of it, shaking and shuddering and unable to breathe.  

 

Bucky hadn’t been out of breath in seventy goddamn years, but he was panting like he’d run a fucking marathon now.  

 

“Christ,” Bucky panted, as his knees gave out and he slid down the cabinets and oozed onto the floor uselessly.  “Jesus  _ christ, _ Clint.”

 

Clint looked smug.

 

Smug and debauched and absolutely like he’d been thoroughly face-fucked, his mouth red and swollen and his chest heaving for air.  He was painfully hard in his jeans, and there was spit and come on the corner of his mouth, and Clint reached up to wipe it away, but before he could Bucky leaned forward to suck it messily off his face. 

 

The little noise of surprise twisted something in Bucky’s chest.  Clint had just given him the best suck job of his very long life and yet he was surprised that Bucky wanted to - what? Clean him up afterwards?  Kiss him?

 

Bucky tilted his chin, mouthing at Clint’s lips until the other man kissed him back, tentatively at first, and then hungry, nipping at Bucky’s lips and sucking on his tongue.  Bucky reached down to palm at Clint’s dick, felt it jump under his touch.

 

“Can I give you a hand with this?” Bucky asked, nipping at Clint’s jaw and stroking him through the soft denim of his pants.

 

“Only if you use the metal one,” Clint quipped, still a little out of breath.  

 

Bucky paused, leaning back to gauge the seriousness of Clint’s statement. 

 

Clint blushed, no longer the flush of arousal, but the deep red of embarrassment.  

 

Bucky reached out with his left hand, running the tips of his fingers up the length of Clint’s still-covered dick. 

 

Clint  _ whimpered _ , and the blush got deeper.  But he met Bucky’s gaze head on, not backing down.

 

“Yeah?” Bucky asked, fumbling at the zipper on his pants. 

 

“Only if you want-” Clint started, but Bucky raised an eyebrow.  “Yeah, okay, I said I wanted already, didn’t I?”

 

“You did,” Bucky agreed, getting Clint’s jeans unzipped and watching as his cock sprang out, flushed an angry red.  “No underwear?” He asked, teasing, and stroked the very tip of his left index finger over the head of Clint’s cock, watching as it came away sticky. 

 

“It’s laundry day,” Clint said, breathless.  His hips jerked into the barest contact from Bucky’s hand.  

 

Gingerly, Bucky wrapped his fingers around Clint’s dick, giving it a gentle tug. 

 

Clint groaned, dropping his head forward to rest on Bucky’s right shoulder.

 

Bucky did it again, getting a feel for how much pressure was too much, trying to use the limited sensory input of the hand to determine what Clint liked. 

 

Impatient, Clint reached down, wrapping his hand around Bucky’s, and squeezing it tighter.   “Like this,” he choked out, working Bucky’s hand in a desperate rhythm. Bucky followed his motions, and once he’d got it down, Clint let go of his hand to prop himself against the cabinets, his hips jerking into Bucky’s grip.  Bucky focused all his attention on keeping the grip exactly like Clint’d shown him, keeping the rhythm tight and hard and fast, occasionally swiping his thumb over the head, because every time he did Clint made another of the obscene sounds Bucky was growing to love.

 

“Oh shit,” Clint managed, dragging his mouth in the lazy approximation of a kiss over Bucky’s shoulder.  “Oh shit, I’m close.’

 

“Yeah?” Bucky asked, and carefully squeezed just that little bit more. “Yeah, come on then.”

 

Clint groaned like he was dying, his hips jerking and his teeth sinking into Bucky’s shoulder, hot and sharp and  _ real _ in a way Bucky hadn’t even known he wanted, as he spilled himself all over Bucky’s hand and, unfortunately, the sweats still pooled around his ankles.

 

Bucky huffed out a laugh, pressing a kiss behind Clint’s ear as he stroked him gently through the orgasm. 

 

Clint slumped fully against him, pressing Bucky back into the cabinets almost uncomfortably, but it was worth it for the warm weight of him in his arms.  Bucky grimaced at the come cooling on his hand.

 

“That’s not gonna fuck up the joints or anything, right?” Clint mumbled into his neck.

 

Bucky snorted. “It’s watertight, it’s had worse than come on it.”

 

Clint hummed a little, then reached out and pulled Bucky’s hand to his mouth, sucking the index finger into his mouth and licking it clean. 

 

Bucky felt a frissure of arousal shoot up his spine. “Christ, you’re going to kill me.”

 

Clint grinned around the finger, then released it from his mouth, fumbling around until he could hand Bucky his discarded t-shirt to clean his hand off.  “Nah,” he said, rolling his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder like a contented cat. “Where’s the fun in that?” He paused, then levered himself off the floor, offering a hand to Bucky.  “Wanna try that in a bed next?”

 

Bucky allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, finally stepping out of the abused sweatpants, and toeing his sneakers off right there in the middle of the kitchen.  Clint didn’t bother to do up his pants, and Bucky was eyeing all the exposed skin hungrily. 

 

“Yeah,” he decided, reaching out to run metal fingers across Clint’s chest, pausing to thumb at his nipple, watching as it tightened under his touch. Clint inhaled sharply, arching into the contact. 

 

The idea of spending the morning - of maybe spending a lot of mornings, and hopefully nights too - in Clint’s bed, Brooklyn sunshine peeking through the curtains, sounded more like home than anything Bucky’d tried this century. 

 

“Yeah, let’s try that.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Nny for the beta read!! 
> 
> And also for helping me reach a _satisfying climax_
> 
> Couldn't have done it without you bby. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also to the Bad Decision Buddies discord, for all the sprints, enthusiastic encouragement, and demands for porn.
> 
> And finally to Lissa, who helped me work out the metal arm kink and the face-fucking. *muah*


End file.
